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"I didn't know the tune, but I could have sworn the tune knew me. It called out to me, dug under my skin until I was sure I could have picked up my own violin and followed along without effort. It was a distant memory; there, just on the edge of my thoughts, almost out of reach, like trying to remember the taste of something sweet. Did it come from up north? Had Poppie hummed the tune while he worked at his easel and I played with my dolls in the studio? As I listened, drawn into the liquid sound, the notes splashed colors across the dingy walls of the bar until they were the deep green of pine trees and long grass. Gold, the color of sunlit wheat stacks and marsh marigolds, gilded the backs and shoulders of the listeners. The dark, murky corners of the ceiling brightened into an open blue sky and the long wooden bar was stained red as the clay on the stream banks, red as the painted clapboard walls of Poppie's farmhouse. I looked down at my violin resting on my lap, and was filled a wave of longing. I could smell the fields behind Poppie's house and the faint perfume of the garden. And I knew, as surely I knew my own name that the fiddler played a tune about coming home."
Text of Hannah's Garden © 2002 Midori Snyder.